The Fall of A Son of Dutch
by SplatDragon
Summary: "Any last words?" "I am a Son of Dutch."


_ the lasso fastened tight around her throat, and she was yanked harshly off of Speakeasy's back _

The sheriff, looking greatly disappointed and vaguely hurt—they'd been good friends, after all, when she'd passed herself off to him as nothing more than a bounty hunter—fit the noose around her throat

_Dutch rolled his eyes, knocking her hands away as she fussed with her tie; she wasn't one for dress-up, usually, but he needed someone that could fit into small spaces and none of the men could, other than Javier but they wouldn't be able to get a Mexican passed the guards, so it had come down to dressing her up like a man. He pulled the tie tight, and she grimaced; he shook his head, amused, loosening it enough she could breathe _

Sheriff Malloy, refusing to look her in the eye, stepped away, standing next to the lever, beginning to address the crowd. The rough rope of the noose scratched at her throat, and she couldn't help but to wonder how many other people had died at the end of it, only vaguely listening to Malloy as he listed off her crimes, eyes scanning the gathered crowd, more interested in her than him.

_Arthur's eyes watched Dutch keenly, and he wasn't the only one. There was an odd sort of pride in Hosea's eyes, and an adoration among the gathered others, as their leader spoke to them. His voice cracked, rose and fell, and she found herself, too, enraptured. She understood, then, how he had convinced so many to follow him. _

Evan looked up, looked passed them, half hoping to see Arthur, or Charles, Javier or Bill or any of the others, barreling in, masked and ready for a gunfight. But she'd be furious if they did, she'd put herself here _saving_ them, and if they were recognized the whole gang would be put in jeopardy, would be hunted down relentlessly, would have to move far, far away again.

_the heist had gone so, so wrong, and they were running, spurring their horses as hard as they dared. John was bleeding, propped up against Arthur's back, Old Boy following them loyally. Javier and Bill were yelling, bleeding, too, but not half so bad as John, cracking shots off over their shoulders; she was bringing up the back, covering the rear, letting Speakeasy have his head while she shot lawman after lawman, but there was no end to them _

So, no, it would be better if she was lost to them, if she was hanged, if it meant they were safe.

_they had thought they were safe, had lost the lawmen and taken shelter under an overhang. She'd been catching her breath while they licked their wounds, Arthur wrapping up John's as best he could; they needed, desperately, to get him back to camp so he could be tended to properly. Evan had been fine, only a few scrapes, so she'd taken watch_

_she'd been the first to hear the lawmen, naturally, their hooves thundering on the ground. She could only guess they'd followed John's blood, she didn't know, _still doesn't, never will_. But she shouts a warning to the others, and they're on their feet in moments, helping Arthur get John onto his horse, mounting up_

_they spur their horses, still exhausted from the frantic sprint, bolting back towards camp. She knows, though, as she sits in Speakeasy's saddle, that they won't go to camp. Will circle and dart back and forth, won't come within a mile of camp until they're certain they've lost the lawmen _

_and John doesn't have that time_

_so she whirls Speakeasy around, making sure her pistol is loaded, before digging her heels into his sides. He screams, and surges forward, Evan low on his neck, hoping that she'll survive this, knowing she'll come out, at best, badly hurt_

_they take a corner, startle the lawmen. Startle them more when, instead of turning or stopping, they charge forward, barreling through them, sending them scattering. She spurs Speakeasy, seeking to gain as much ground as she can while they're regrouping, turning to fire over her shoulder to make sure she has their attention, and to check that, yes, _

_all of the lawmen have taken after her, abandoning their pursuit of the others _

She could only hope they'd take care of Whiskey and Duchess and Merchant and Underwood, that Kieran or Arthur or even both, maybe it would be better if it were both, they loved those horses, would find them good homes, or keep them in the gang, put them to good work. Whiskey, big as he was, would be perfect for little Jack to learn to ride on, he's so slow and sturdy and steady and she was sure he'd put up with the boy. Hoped, maybe, that they'd give Whiskey to Jack, let him live out his twilight years with the kid, leave _something _to show she'd been with the gang, to show that she'd done some good.

Evan wished, more than anything, that they had hold of Speakeasy. That he'd managed to get away from the lawmen, fled when she'd been pulled from his saddle. That he hadn't been so _damn _well trained, hadn't stopped and waited for her to mount up again.

She didn't know what they would do with him, after, and that uncertainty scared her more than anything. He was a _good _horse, and she loved him, and he deserved far better than to be some lawman's workhorse. Deserved, after her death, a lazy retirement of fresh grass and oatcakes, getting fat while carrying around some little kid. Or hauling around a little cart, carrying produce to market. Not being shot at, possibly by the very outlaws he'd helped protect, until he died beneath an indifferent lawmen.

Shit, she hoped they told Cripps. The old man would have no way of knowing that she was dead, only that she'd never come home. Never wrote him, never told him to move camp again. Not unless her hanging managed to make it into the paper, and he happened to buy that paper. She hoped it did, and that he did. After all, a bounty hunter so notorious as to earn a name from the Del Lobos, being revealed as an infamous outlaw? And being hanged for it, besides?

That all hinged on Cripps buying that particular paper though and, considering how far they were camped from a town, she didn't think he would.

He knew, though, that she ran with the Van Der Lindes from time to time. Knew the vague area that they were camped in.

So, surely, if she never came home, he would seek them out? He cared for her, she knew, or at least the income she brought in, the clothes and the furnishings, so surely he would ask them if they'd seen her. Or, at the least, write them? She'd told him their pen-name, how to get ahold of them, just in case, and her never showing up… well, she'd damn well say that was an emergency.

So Evan hoped that they'd take him in. They already had Uncle, after all, so what was one more senile old man? Especially one that was at least somewhat useful. If they didn't, well, she didn't know where he'd go. Horley and his mistress were gone, so he couldn't just go back to them.

She hoped, more than anything, that they'd take him in. Him and Tad, god, they both needed a good home. Tad could help them hunt, after all. He wasn't too loud, and he was a damn good hunting dog. They always needed money, and food, and he could help them get both. Besides, they had Jack, and a boy, any kid, always needs a dog. And Tad would make a fantastic first dog for the kid. So, really, they didn't have any reason to _not _take the two in; they would only be a boon for the gang.

The sheriff was reaching the end of his speech, although she'd long stopped paying attention and, she saw, those who had lent him half an ear had, as well, far more interested in the outlaw only moments from death. Evan wanted to look to Malloy, to seek some sort of comfort from her friend before she died, but she refused to, fixed her eyes on the crowd. She'd betrayed him, and he likely hated her for it. What right had she to beg comfort, to beg _forgiveness_, just because she was about to die? At his hand, no less. The man was already hurting, and being made to look into her eyes as she died, whether abruptly as her neck was snapped, or slowly, suffering as she was strangled, wouldn't be fair to him, and though she was an outlaw she had enough empathy to keep her eyes on the crowd, barely able to hear his speech drawing to an end over the rapid thrumming of her heart. It bounded in her chest, leaping and racing, as though it knew they soon would come to an end, was trying to wring as many beats out as it could.

"She shows no remorse, and neither shall we."

Evan raised her head, gulping around the noose that felt tighter and tighter, watching as the Sheriff tightened his hand on the lever.

She looked over the crowd, those countless faces that she'd seen so many times, could never put names to. There, the gunsmith, some dull sort of horror on his face as he realized why, exactly, she came in so often to buy ammunition. The butcher she'd dare say she was friends with. The stable-hand, the general shop owner. All people she had met, had known well, but that hadn't truly _known _her despite what they had thought.

"I _am _a Son of Dutch."

No one in the crowd would remember that she said it. They might think about it, sure, for a few hours. Wonder over it, whether she truly was a Son of Dutch, if they were nearby or if she had strayed and wandered. But come morning they'd forget about it, would forget about even her, that brief entertainment they'd gotten from watching her hang long gone. Maybe the butcher, the gunsmith, would remember her for longer, but he, too, would forget about her. And the Van Der Lindes would, eventually, as well. As would Cripps, and Horley, and Flaco, and everyone else she'd ever known.

Sheriff Malloy would, for sure. At least for a couple of days. Were the Van Der Lindes around? he'd wonder. Finally, though, he'd write it off as the last, desperate words of a criminal, trying to buy herself a few more hours, hours in which she'd be interrogated as to the Van Der Linde Gangs whereabouts, hours in which she could stage her escape.

In the end, though, she would be forgotten, as everyone was.

But oblivion scared her, as it did any outlaw. She wanted to be remembered, as any outlaw did, to go out in a blaze of glory. In a gunfight, trying to get away from the law, with money and spoils to bring back for her family. Would have been much happier dying earlier, while luring the lawmen away, alone and in the brush, instead of in front of a bunch of people who didn't care, who were only there seeking some sick entertainment.

She needed to say it. That she _was _loyal to Dutch. That, in the end, her heart belonged among them, far away now, by the campfire, surrounded by the sounds of loud voices and guitar playing, by the thudding of woodcutting and the whickering of horses. With the people who had, somehow, earned her trust and her loyalty. None of whom she had ever _told_, and so she wanted _someone _to know. To say it, out loud, if only ever once, this final time, and know that someone would hear her. She was about to die for them, and she could only hope that they-


End file.
